The Lucky Star

by William T. Vollmann

  We were all free now; and the transwoman, having climaxed again and again, laid down her head between the lesbian’s breasts and let everything go, her woeful hopes, resentful aspirations and everything good and bad, all bleeding pleasurably away—if she could only die like this!—she was hemorrhaging, lightening, hollowing out until nothing remained but sleep. For her part, Neva began dreaming of the straight man bowing over a row of graves.

  11

  Neva visited her mother and came home, after which something happened inside her skull; had she been older she might have wondered whether she had just experienced a minor stroke; the way it felt was that unknown things had squeezed her tight, then squeezed her out into some new place; to be more precise, the things that she had been trying to be and to avoid being, the things she kept doing to protect us from sadness, and the things we demanded of her, all of these forces and entities which had pressed upon her for so long now gripped her almost to death, crushing and strangling her, forcing her down and down through a series of hot dark merciless contractions, advancing her toward her own end, expelling her through rings of slimy muscle, until she came out, falling cold and free as if her brain were hemorrhaging—when all that had taken place was that she realized: I cannot do this anymore, and she felt so free and empty, falling into the easy abyss of powerlessness, fighting nothing, letting go of everything. Meanwhile the transwoman kept calling her over and over.

  12

  The next morning she woke up feeling anxious about some new unknown thing—the retired policeman was never wrong!—and when she went to the bathroom she saw in the mirror that she had definitely begun to get old. Her face looked tired, and some of the plump pinkness had gone out of it. A wrinkle across the bridge of her nose stood out like a scar.

  Being complete and perfect, she never wondered whether she ought to begin giving less to others. She might have told herself (but not in words): I still believe that what I am doing is not wrong. But if something turns out otherwise, I can always square myself through suicide, or . . . Or what? Well, if I only find a good method I’ll be all right. It’s nothing that we don’t all have to go through, one way or another.

  And her heart lifted whenever she thought this. She could do what she had been placed on earth to do, and then when that got to be too much she could just go underground. People might blame her, but she would be safe; they could not do anything to her then!

  But the foregoing remains a merest interpolation. Lost in the lazy delusions of my own desires, I impute to her whatever thought processes Judy or I might have possessed, had we been beautiful and loveable forever. More likely, Neva thought of nothing anymore. Isn’t that what perfection decrees? (My own warped mentation no longer halts itself.)

  13

  Neva, look me in the eye. Are you telling me everything?

  Of course I am, the lesbian wearily replied, sick with weary dread.

  Then why won’t you look me in the eye?

  Smiling, the lesbian rose, brought her face close to the other woman’s, and kissed her.

  Sandra said: I’m feeling a lot of confusion, but this pain is another way of experiencing my love for you. Neva, I want you here . . .

  The lesbian held her hand.

  Sandra continued: I just tell myself this isn’t real, Neva. I remember when what we felt was somehow just more innocent in a way, I can’t say why . . . But seeing you with others, I can’t stand it!

  The lesbian waited. Gently withdrawing her hand, Sandra said: Maybe I’ll go back to Louis and start a family with him, although maybe that would make me feel more alone, if I were still also seeing you secretly and . . . I just don’t know how to face this. I don’t blame you. I’m feeling a hotness about the sex; it’s not quite a betrayal, Neva, but maybe it is, but the profound love that I have for you, I . . . I feel so stupid now! But I want your life to be happy, Neva. Are you happy?

  Sweetheart, don’t worry, said the lesbian.

  We are kind of in our own world, and maybe I’m delusional, but if we stay in our own world when we’re together then maybe that’s all that matters. I mean, do you think so?

  Of course I do.

  I feel that you understand more about you and me than I do. Maybe what we’re doing is the best for me; I don’t know. Do you think it is? I mean, do you have anything to say to me? I can’t stand it—

  One word, said the lesbian. Mermaids.

  But that’s . . . Do you really believe it?

  Close your eyes.

  But what do you want? Who are you? Oh, Neva, you’re hurting me so much . . . !

  The lesbian came close. Shutting her eyes, Sandra kissed her desperately.

  Some Warmth That Wasn’t There

  Most of them have never heard of the word Lesbian . . . But they knew something was wrong . . . Some warmth that wasn’t there . . . I put it to him straight. Did he know she was a Lez when he was working with her? He said no, never suspected it for one minute. He knew there was something lacking, but he blamed himself.

  JOHN O’HARA, 1966

  Alas, he knew not how dire a monster was she for whose marriage couch he yearned . . .

  VALERIUS FLACCUS, ca. 70–90 A.D.

  It works for a while—but only for a while. Because, late at night, when the paying customers have all gone home, the applause becomes a booming, empty echo, and that’s not pleasant.

  JUDY GARLAND, 1969

  1

  I sincerely wanted what was best for Neva; I was as responsible a citizen as the husband who stabbed to death his runaway wife for the sake of the children. (As Shantelle so tenderly put it: Neva, I’m sick of this goddamn shit and someday I’m gonna have a gun in my hand.) I would do whatever it took to honor that happy feeling when we were rushing up her carpeted stairs to love Neva, whose beauty was challenging, burdensome and outright hateful to all the G-girls who were young, ready and naked-shouldered like the silent screen actress Mabel Normand . . . and Francine, peering semi-covertly across the bar, perceived the lesbian was upset for once, which was a good thing, because the bitch had it coming to her; while Sandra, taking a recess from being Judy’s special friend, whispered to Neva another potentially true story about turning into mermaids . . . and the lesbian chewed some transparent powder, feeling better even before it made her better; she took deep breaths, trying to accelerate her metabolism so that the happy powder would help her sooner; now she was unexpectedly remembering that first time so long ago with E-beth, who was smiling and weeping at the same time, her eyes closed, her lips stretched as wide as they would go, with her teeth shining and shining; it was as if she had learned something terribly sad but accepted it and taken it into herself until it became happy; then came that crooked smile which Karen came to know so thoroughly . . .—As for Sandra, she always lost herself in herself, dripping wet, moaning ever more loudly, then squeaking like a sweet little mouse. Hunter for her part used to be silent for a long time but gradually began rotating her hips faster and faster; when she finally began to moan she was almost there; she screamed herself raw in a trembling voice; after her death the lesbian kept remembering her. Holly would say, oh, God, oh, God, and burst into laughter when she came. I can’t tell you what I did, but the straight man came quickly, rigidly and repeatedly. (About him Holly said to Neva: There is something that I have noticed with guys that are supermale. I feel something for them, because they come on to me, because I’ve gotten a lot of attention all my life, and that is something very exciting to me, and they’re so cocky and egotistical and into themselves and I’m so thrown off by it that it works in a sense, that I don’t just say, fuck off. You almost have me interested!) Xenia began to moan almost at once, steadily but softly, wriggling her hips as she went; when she climaxed it was nearly imperceptible to any lover (she said that she often let her mind wander and then the orgasm would be a surprise). Erin writhed almost silently, then began to m
oan in a strange humming almost metallic way like a harmonica, finally coming silently. As for Shantelle, it now turned out that even she could be reduced to pleading, while E-beth, yes, E-beth . . .—and Sandra told that lonely woman: But then you must understand that when I don’t hear from you for days or weeks, I may develop emotional relationships with others . . .—and just as a manta ray sometimes raises the tip of its wing above the water’s surface, so the transwoman, uplifting one heavy eyelid, stared across the retired policeman’s jowls and began to think. It was almost Pink Apple time!

  Nowadays her sessions with the retired policeman resembled chewing ecstasy crystals with a lover whom due to the antidepressant in her bloodstream it does not affect, so that one’s loving happy desire and intimacy are all the while rendered schizoid by the lover’s bored talk of what happened at the office. As for him, he was long since used to some warmth that wasn’t there.

  But she wanted to be more of a woman—which is to say, more like Neva. Therefore, she aspired to send him away happy. Recollecting this, she instantly felt as motivated and determined to be perfect as Judy Garland had been once they discharged her from the hospital in 1960 and she promised herself no more pills ever. That same year Bennett Cerf called her a good girl, I mean a good guilty girl, and everything went on in Technicolor until they found her on the toilet seat, livid and perfect with rigor mortis.

  Charged with the hot love which the lesbian had bestowed upon her, our Judy now loved with tenderness and desire both the frankness of his hairy testicles and the vastness of his yellow abdomen. So she knelt down and worshipped him until he was gratified. Happy that their appropriate power relations had been restored, he rolled her over and used her repeatedly; the way she kept biting her lips to keep in the screams of pain betokened consent; now she was sobbing steadily and groaning at every thrust; when he finally climaxed and pulled out there was blood on his penis, but not so much; that kind of pain went away almost at once; he gave her an affectionate spank on the nearest buttock and said: That was pretty good, babe.

  Proud of her progress, she flew off to her goddess for further coaching and therapy.

  Neva, how do you see me?

  What does Xenia say?

  I’m asking you.

  Are you asking how I see who you are or how I see who you want to be?

  I don’t know. Maybe the second . . .

  Well, I see a strong, tall woman with a beautiful neck and long dark hair, and sad, sad eyes. Such pretty eyes—

  How can I be her?

  Take better care of yourself. Keep losing weight. You’ve already slimmed down so well. Shave better. Wash your hair when it’s greasy. You’re almost there—

  Tomorrow night. At the Pink Apple, Neva! Can you believe it? Oh, my God!

  I’ll be there.

  But will you do please please something for me?

  The lesbian smiled and waited.

  Let’s have a little puke party right now. That way I can lose more weight, and I, I actually get really excited to watch you do it. I don’t know why, but it’s really hot.

  Okay, said the lesbian.

  You first, her guest commanded, starting to play with herself.

  So Judy kept looking better and better. Just as MGM’s doctors prescribed Benzedrine, the miracle drug, to keep Judy Garland teensy-weensy at ninety-five pounds, with a nightly course of barbiturates for sleep, so our Judy faithfully obeyed her own regimen of uppers and downers—but no goddamn buttermilk on her face to take away the freckles! A quick bag of doughnuts, followed by a vomit-and-go; heavier concealer, eyelashes straight out of the box, even a couple of pushups, squat thrusts and leg lifts, oh, yeah! So she dressed up and prepared to be liked at the Pink Apple. She hoped to do the same for the whole wide world!

  2

  For Xenia the worst time to work was Christmas, because that was when everybody had the saddest story, and sometimes she nearly broke down. She came to the Y Bar for light relief, and to Neva for, well, you know.

  To the retired policeman she confided: I have the whole Christmas tree, and I’m goin’ after her . . .

  You’re talking about Karen Strand, right? Suits me. She’s a shitty piece of work. You get your hooks in her and drag her out of state; then I swear I’ll give you a fuckin’ medal.

  Xenia laughed. She liked him all the better for not being competition.

  The manager under whose cruel gaze Judy had previously disgraced herself was off tonight. Xenia had planned accordingly.

  Judy sat wringing her hands, wishing for even just point one grams of ecstasy, or maybe a taste of yellow serum. This time she had listened to Xenia and Neva, and dressed in a long loose sky-blue “mother of the bride” dress. When she had first resisted their advice, they reminded her of the time at the Y Bar when she tried to copy the supermodel Tyra Banks and appeared in khaki-esque coveralls; even Francine rolled her eyes and said: Judy, don’t you see how it clings to your tummy? That outfit is actually too tight for you. Now, if you don’t want to lose weight . . .—by which time the transwoman was sobbing loudly, and everyone got entertained, especially the Scandinavians—a pretty torture from which she was released only when Al opened his cracked smart phone to say: No, that was before my divorce.—By now, of course, she actually had lost weight—twenty-six pounds and counting, thanks to her secret puke parties. And just for a change, why not avoid humiliation?

  But where was Neva?

  Xenia ordered two Old German Lagers and the retired policeman ordered a triple shot of Old Crow straight up, while Judy got a bourbon and ginger ale. Shaking his head, he demanded: What the hell are you nursing it for? If you’re going to drink, then fuckin’ drink.

  I’m worried that I might have to pee during my act.

  Then make your act a golden shower. What the fuck do you care?

  Judy smiled and looked away. Then they all sat watching the current stripper, whose buttocks clenched and unclenched as tirelessly as the muscles of some filter-feeding mollusk, ingesting and straining money out of the darkness.

  Now it was time for tranny bingo. Mistress Merkin, the announcer, was a lovely drag queen, big and blonde, with dark eyelashes almost long enough to hang our coats on. She began explaining: The long sheets have three boxes. Each sheet is one game. You’ve got your little dauber . . .

  You wanna play? asked the retired policeman.

  No, honey; I’m too nervous—

  And there’s a punishment, the fat blonde laughed, waving a paddle.

  The two fat and well-sequined G-girls sitting side by side behind Xenia began shouting with laughter.

  Neva said she’d come, but I don’t see her, said Judy.

  Well, did she promise?

  Not exactly—

  You are—a WINNER! boomed the drag queen, waving her white arms.

  Then the tall emcee was kissing and pulling at the prettiest young bridesmaids and bachelorettes, dragging them up onto the stage, where, although they had shaken their heads desperately and literally dug in their heels, they now capered in delight. Poor Judy couldn’t follow what was happening. She always got stupid when she was scared.

  A hipster girl nattered on her cell phone, while her date or boyfriend earnestly marked both their bingo cards.

  The lowest number leads you to a bed of punishment. And there’s worse for cheaters. All together: NO—FAKE—BINGO!

  The next winner was a lovely Latina wearing a paper crown. She toasted the Latina beside her.

  The new manager came over and said: Xenia, you’re Number One tonight. And what’s your friend’s name?

  Judy, said Judy.